Page 92 of Of Skulls Of Shackles

“Iharden,” murmured King See to King Take. They chuckled together, and I bit back a grin.

“As you say, Your Majesty.” Princess Take curtsied and departed. “Where shall I find you once I have an update?”

“You will not find me. I trip through hellebores. If King Bring wishes to play hide and seek, then I shall let him tire himself. I have mothers to find in the meantime.”

Tire himself. But not die. He could not die, but I could only be in so many places, and so I must trust in pawns and my marshal.

“Mothers,” said King Change, drawing out thes.

I met the glinting yellow-eyed gaze of the king, then cast my magic to check the security of the stitch welding his shackles firmly shut forevermore—unless I deemed otherwise.Unlesshe proved trustworthy. “Mothers, yes. The fifty ancestral mothers who made me.”

“How many remain to find?” asked King See.

The kings were interested indeed. How could they not be when fifty mothers—human, no less—gathered to me in their death.Humans.There was another reminder.I should not underestimate their power over monsters.

I answered despite some inner discomfort, “Thirteen mothers remain.”

King Change growled, “What is their purpose?”

“Deathly vigil.” With that said, I strode for the rooftop balustrade and leaped off to fall through moonlit air toward Mother’s grave.

I used to rush through the grave, eager for the warmth and support of so many women who shared my blood. Nowanights, the rustling trip through hellebores invoked dread. If only they were not so insistent about entering the haze. If only they were not so disappointed in my refusal.

In the gray scale side, I clawed up the dirt sides of the grave.

“Mother.” I kissed her sunken cheek. “Mothers,” I greeted the thirty-six others.

“Patch,” replied some.

“Perantiqua,” hummed others.

“My Patch,” wheezed my mother.

Seven others had appeared, and relief filled me at the sight of them.Six left.

“Welcome,” I called to where they stood at the base of the tower.

No answer.No smile or nod of acknowledgment.

I perceived more reluctance in them than in any other group. No single mother stood out as particularly resistant, but there was an undercurrent in the recent arrivals. No doubt the reason they had dragged their feet. Of course, these mothers had come later in the ancestral line and ancient purpose had not filled them at all. Only the mantel they had inherited had guilted, shamed, and forced them into withering. A deathbed promise totheirwithered mother. Or some had chosen and accepted withering in the deepest parts of their hearts and minds, only to be shocked when the withering actually happened.

I brushed over the stitches on my face and chest that they were responsible for. “I will stitch you in place now.”

They did not have the strength to resist, and truthfully, I could not let them do so. To do so would be to condemn all monsters and the mothers already sitting in vigil. They were only strong in totality of numbers, but currently were full body armor without the chest piece. I could not leave them so.

I took the hand of the closest mother. “Come, Mother.”

Her hard blue eyes met mine. “I do not choose this death.”

My heart sank. “I know, Mother. I would not choose this death for you either. Many lives depend on you sitting stitched. Will you do so of free will?”

“No, for I lost half my life for the lives of all. I should not have to give my eternal death too.”

A tear slipped over my cheek and caught on the very cheek stitch she had created. The stitch was very neat. Neat and angry. This mother hated her part in this play, and yet she had still performed to the best of her ability. “If I had another choice, I would not stitch you here.”

She walked with me and sat, then closed her eyes. “There is always choice.”

The mother extended her hand, and I could find nothing to reply with as I stitched her in vigil. She was right and wrong at the same time. Or did I wish to believe she was wrong? Was there another option?

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